Sweet And Salty

Forewarning: This story is quite graphic, both in terms of sex and violence, and should not be read by anyone at all.  No one whatsoever should read this.  This is your warning.

 

Final warning.

 

I warned you:

Candy sipped from the glass of lemongrass-and-ginseng tea, aswirl with an overabundance of sugar, and occasionally nibbled at an unsalted pretzel. She could not tolerate salt between jobs and, so, worked her hardest to sweeten her breath and wet her throat on days when she was scheduled to meet with her clients. Being a highly sought, highly expensive escort under contract to Madame Stamos, Candy did not have to work often. Still, the “money-shot” cloyed and she had developed a subsequent aversion to salt.
And penises.
But penises were her business, and tonight she had a client coming over for his weekly appointment. She did not mind Stanley, though. His penis was small, quick to expectation, and did not yield much in its output. So to speak. His wallet, on the other hand, was always thickly engorged and ready to erupt like Mt. Vesuvius. (Candy had visited Pompeii during one of Madame Stamos’s employee vacation retreats. Madame Stamos was Greek, and something of a Greek mother to her girls. She had no daughters of her own, and doted and indulged her girls quite extravagantly…if they performed well and pleased the clientele. Candy found it humorous that a whole civilization had been wiped out by what was essentially ejaculation from the earth. She had a dark sense of humor, even if she did have a sweet tooth.)
As a consequence of her sweet tooth, Candy liked candy. She ate it all of the time, alongside sodas and sweet tea and whatever else had unhealthy handfuls of sugar in it. If she started to put on weight in regions where it was unwanted, she simply did a little extra yoga, and induced a lot of vomiting. Madame Stamos demanded top-tier escorts for their top-tier pay, and Candy did not want to risk her profession for a few extra Twizzlers and Kit-Kats. She could have both, anyway: eat sweets and be in tiptop shape. The balance was easy in this business where a throat was willing.
Candy was wearing her cheerleader outfit already, replete with red pompoms and a short skirt with red and white frills. Stanley had a high school hang-up and Candy purchased the uniform especially for him, using his money. She had two or three uniforms for each of her clients, ranging from cavewoman to nurse, from bitchy lawyer to cliche dominatrix. She had only one name for each client, however, and no two were the same. Tonight she was Candy the Cheerleader. Tomorrow she would be Helga the Milkmaid, and the next night she would be Rosemary the Nun.
The hotel room in which she drank her tea and awaited her client was 5 star quality and 10 star expensive. That was fine for her, however, since Stanley had already prepaid for it himself. It came with complimentary champagne, a two-person jacuzzi, King-size bed, and a full-sized bathroom with a shower as expansive as the bed. Her suitcase was in the walk-in closet, already unpacked of its client-specific effects. Candy knew how to please her clients, for that was her job. She took her business very seriously.
Candy had gone to Business School for a year and a half, back when her name was still Sarah Hackman, but she found tuition costly, and time scarce, whereas she found she had quite the knack for the world’s oldest profession. Sex was just business in her mind: labor for wages. Tit for tat and tits for tax. That said, she never thought of herself as a prostitute. There were too many stigmas and too much devaluation in that title. She was a high class concubine, a manager of her own body’s department store.
Or some such euphemistic pretense.
She spooned another heap of sugar into her glass of tea in anticipation of tonight’s work. Stanley, like all of her clients, loved fellatio the most. It was her fault, really, since she was so good at it. She hated it, but it was her specialty and it kept them coming back for more, which meant job security and an expansion of her franchise. Pleasing them pleased her, as any job someone prided herself upon, and it pleased her in letting her enjoy the finer things in life. The sweet life. She may not have graduated Business School, but her clients were always cum-de-loud.
That was her own silly joke she told herself when she was feeling soured or embittered.
There was a knock at the door; a gentle, hesitant knock. Stanley was early. Normally that would have irritated her, but Stanley was such a sweetheart (in his own creepy way) that she did not mind. She downed the rest of her sweet, sweet tea to sweeten her smile, stood up from the edge of the bed, swiped her frills down over her honey-tanned thighs, and then went to the door. She dimmed the room’s lights, with a radial dial, until the room was as dark and as bright as any of the street corners several storeys below, in the heart of New York. She then opened the door, speaking like a bubbly cheerleader still in love with youth and life and the high school quarterback.
“Stan!” she chimed. “Where have you been? I missed you!”
He shuffled inside as if he was expecting to be upbraided. She closed the door and bounded around him excitedly, raising her pompoms in the air and kicking as she always did when beginning their roleplaying session. He turned away from her, though, his sagging shoulders in a greater slump than usual.
“What’s wrong, Stan?” she asked, still maintaining her faux cheerleader effervescence. “Do you need me to give you a pep rally?” She assumed a cheerleader stance, pompoms raised, fisting them into the air. “Stan! Stan! He’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can! Gooooooo Stan!”
She rolled the pompoms around in a flourish and leapt in the air, arching her back. The excess sugar helped energize the performance. Usually it was enough to have him creaming his pants in a couple of jiffies. Easiest three grand ever.
“I couldn’t come last week,” he said timidly. “Because…because…I went to see…someone else…”
She furrowed her brow in teen-aged histrionic mock-anger. “You cheated on me? Stan! How could you? That’s not keeping with the home-team spirit!”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, staring at the floor.
Stanley looked pale— paler than usual— which would have been impossible in her mind had she had to imagine it. His pallor was always like milk. It was a natural consequence of his lifestyle. He was good with computers, but bad with people, especially girls. A tech company engineer, he spent all day and night in front of a computer screen, his body melting into his chair and never but accidentally glimpsing the sun in between the New York city skyscrapers. His paunch protruded over his pelvis so profusely that Candy believed she had probably seen his penis more in his adult life than he had, concealed as it was by the overhang of his gut.
“A friend recommended a girl to me,” he said, sheepishly. He referred to every woman as a girl. “She was…unique.”
“I’m unique, too, Stanley!” Candy said, pouting and putting her hands on her hips, puffing her cheeks out as if having a bratty high school temper-tantrum.
“You are!” he said, looking away from her and recoiling as if he expected to be struck. “That’s why I came back. This girl…she wasn’t anything like you. She wasn’t like anyone at all…”
Candy could see that he was not into the roleplaying like he should have been. He was distracted, and agitated. In fact, he looked sad and pathetic and lost beneath the dimmed hotel lights. If he had been a child she would have comforted him with a motherly hug, but he was a grown man paying a grown woman for a high quality sexual experience, so she was confused by this maudlin scenario so far. Instinctively, she threw her pompoms aside, walked over to him and started loosening the overstrained belt holding up his brown slacks. The buckle popped open eagerly enough, as the gut slipped forward and fell farther down over his thighs, dragging his pants down with its largess as if to help Candy usher the slacks along.
She paused a moment, reeling.
He smelled of the sea, and of putrid fish.
“Yucky!” she said, staying in character despite her revulsion. “You stink! You need to hit the showers before we can have our extracurricular activities!”
He did not respond, but did not resist as she took him by the hand and led him toward the bathroom.
Entering the bathroom, Candy helped Stanley strip and then led him into the large shower. She took off all of her clothes, too, but left her blonde hair up in its twin pigtails. Using her own honey-and-lavender body wash, she lathered his pudgy body up as the water rained over his porcine rotundity. She had brought the body wash along with her other things, just as she always did when working. It was her necessity to smell sweet and clean after an appointment. Always sweet.
“That is a really strong smell,” he said with a sigh.
“Sweet, isn’t it?” she said, trying not to be irritable as she cleaned him, head to toe. This was too much like menial work. “Sweet just like me. Right, Stan?”
He stood silently in the suds and the water, demure and still looking away from her like a self-conscious teenage boy naked in front of a girl for the first time. Normally she worked him in the dark, to ease his self-consciousness, and she knew she would have to do so tonight, after this embarrassing work was done. Pleasing her client was her primary goal. She had to make him want to return next week, otherwise a sizeable chunk of her income would be lost. That was Business 101: preserve the customer base.
When Candy had finished, and Stanley smelled sufficiently of honey and lavender, she dried him off, and herself, and led him to the bed. She laid him down and began working him with her mouth. Her mouth was a miracle worker, after all, and would salvage him from this melancholy that had hold of him. She did not care that he went to see another girl for sex, just so long as he returned to her, too, with payment. Why would she care about that? They weren’t married. They weren’t anything except businesswoman and consumer.
Stanley was so weird, she thought, and weirder than usual. His penis was also saltier than usual, almost like a pickle, and engorged much larger than the sad four inches that she remembered. Had she not felt it swell in her mouth she would have thought he had slipped an ultra-realistic dildo on in the dark. His penis grew, in her professional estimation, to about eight inches, which was double and, moreover, impossible.
And it tasted like seawater.
She gagged on it, which never happened with her clients, and she started to suffer a case of lockjaw as she worked him. She had to use her hands, to give her mouth a break, but he shoved himself deeper into her throat, pounding away at a faster rhythm toward climax. She started to choke, and suffocate. This was not characteristic of Stan. He was passive; always passive. Bewildered, and breathless, she looked up at him in the half-light as he leaned against the headboard, his face blank of expression; as if everything upstairs was detached from everything that was happening downstairs.
“She was Malaysian,” he said quietly. “Or maybe Taiwanese. I don’t know. She was a thousand years old, but only looked fourteen. She was beautiful and ugly at the same time.”
Candy had heard weirder sex-talk than this, but there was something in Stanley’s tone that disturbed her more than the thought of dying with his newfound penis impaling her throat.
“She said I would help her bear children. She said I would father her line upon a woman. She had a strange body. My Fiji mermaid. It felt so good. I haven’t felt anything like it before, or since. I haven’t felt anything at all since. Even now I don’t feel anything. What are you doing down there?”
His lower body convulsed and Candy felt something give way in her mouth. She fell backward as she came free of him, yet she still could not breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Stanley said softly. His head lolled to one side, onto his shoulder, and remained still.
Candy would have screamed in horror, but Stanley’s penis was still in her mouth and throat, and it began to wiggle and move of its own accord. She stood up, flailing her arms and running around the room, sobbing hysterically. She tried to reach into her mouth and grab it as it slithered further down her esophagus, but it was too slippery and strong. She tried to vomit it out, but years of bulimia and blowjobs had ruined her gag reflex. She clutched at her throat and chest and stomach in vain as the thing traveled further and further into the depths of her body.

***

She could not eat anything now except salty foods. That was what it wanted. It controlled what she ate and what she did and who she fucked and who she implanted while fucking. It devoured their penises and gave them new ones, thus spawning more of its own kind to colonize and propagate. It was an invasive species. The home-team advantage did not help at all against it.
It also did not like sugar.
She never got the salty taste out of her mouth and throat again. No one did.

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